


the butcher

by the__butcher



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Dissociation, Drugs, Flashbacks, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Vore, dubcon, mobgoro - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the__butcher/pseuds/the__butcher
Summary: Goro laid on his floor after being fucked by a dozen of Shido’s associates, and he picked up the black marker, and slowly, he pressed it to the inside of his thigh. Then kept going, carefully dotting a line around his whole thigh. He liked the way the marks looked against his skin. Then he drew a dotted line around one of the bruises on his hip, sectioning it off neatly; then one around his other hip, his other thigh. Dotted lines up his arms, his torso, right under his collar so they wouldn’t be seen under his clothes.He’d dropped the marker and looked at himself in the mirror, sectioned off and ready to serve.(mobgoro)
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Other(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 63





	the butcher

The moment Akira is out of his sight, Goro takes off towards the Diet building. He just has to not think about it, not think about Akira or their fight just now in Mementos, not think about who won or how none of it will matter in just a few days—as long as he doesn’t think about it, everything will be _fine_. 

There’s really only one place he can go to stop thinking the way he needs to.

When he arrives, he whispers the words into his phone that transport him to Shido’s ship. He’s still in his uniform, not a threat to Shido and not planning on fighting at all—though the thought does occur to him that tearing a few shadows limb from limb could be satisfying in a certain way. No—he’s been fighting alongside the Thieves in Sae’s palace for enough time now that fighting would inevitably make him think of _them,_ of _him…_

And it’s not what he needs, anyway.

His first stop is the little room where his cognitive self lives. His cognitive self is doing his homework like the good little boy Shido knows he is between shifts of doing his dirty work. It only takes a hard blow to the back of his head to knock him out, and the sheets from the perfectly-made bed are good enough to tie him up for the rest of the night.

Then he makes his way to the special VIP room in the very back of the ship, behind the restaurant and slot machines and smoking deck, gated behind more and more layers of exclusivity until only the shadows who Shido is most desperate to impress can access. Goro can be an adequate substitute for his cognitive self tonight, for their purposes.

But first, he takes the drinks that are proffered on silver platters by cognitive waiters, prepared just for him. Flutes of something that tastes like champagne and is definitely something a little more than that, something that quickly fills him with bubbles, then warm, swirling heat, and then a foggy nothingness that leaves room for no sensation but pliability and as he lays back on the table that’s been set out for him.

There’s no better way he’s found to stop thinking.

It doesn’t take long before the first few men walk in, their eyes lighting up when they see that they’re the first to arrive. They don’t bother with small talk like Goro knows their real-world counterparts do in this situation; one of them merely unbuttons Goro’s shirt, then pets his hair as he says to himself, “You’re so pretty, Goro-chan, just like a little girl.”

Goro doesn’t even really have to listen. It doesn’t matter; whether he listens or not, whether he’s pleasant or surly or simply, as he is, absolutely nothing, the shadow wastes no time unzipping his pants and shoving his still-half-soft cock right into Goro’s mouth. Goro opens right up for him, swallowing him down as soon as the hot, sweaty flesh pushes past his lips.

Time is fuzzy, and if Goro is thinking any more, it’s only in fragments of thought that have nothing to do with who he is or what he’s done. How strange it still feels when a soft cock firms up against the hard palate of his mouth. What he saw the ship’s cognitive restaurant was serving for dinner; he’s not sure he had dinner, now that he thinks about it, he was in too much of a rush to do...something. Doesn’t matter.

A hand—whether it’s attached to a body is unimportant right now, it’s just a hand—pulls down Goro’s pants roughly, not even bothering to unzip him. The hand grabs his dick and starts stroking it, and it feels good, feels _good_ , and then there’s the press of someone’s lubed-up cock against his hole, and as it presses in it _hurts_ , and that feels good, too, and then time gets even fuzzier.

He closes his eyes for half a second, losing himself to sensation, but they shoot up again a second or a minute or an hour later when the man who’s been fucking into his mouth stills and shoots cum down his throat, holding Goro by the hair to keep him inside, as if Goro would make any effort to pull off. He swallows it down and gives the man a hazy smile, not because he feels like he needs to perform for this man, this shadow, this nothing—but because he’s happy, because he’s nothing, too, right now.

Someone else takes that man’s place in his mouth, and Goro takes him in, wrapping his mouth gratefully around the next cock, grateful because he doesn’t have to wait gaping around emptiness, because he’s full. The man thrusting into his ass thrusts harder, harder, and then comes inside him, filling him with wet heat, and the hand that’s been jerking Goro off speeds up faster, faster, and a second or a minute or an hour later Goro’s coming, too, across his own stomach.

The endless onslaught of shadows doesn’t stop just on account of his overstimulation, thank god. Someone new takes that man’s place inside Goro’s ass, another takes Goro’s dick in his hand even as Goro’s so sensitive he’s writhing and mewling in pain. Other men are standing around him with their cocks in hand, watching him. Goro reaches out and grasps weakly, and they take pity on him, fitting his hand around their cocks so he can jerk them in time with whatever new cock is setting its own tempo in and out of him.

An endless mob of men surrounds him, with new men ready to take the place of any that finish. One man finishes inside Goro’s ass, and before Goro can even blink his eyes open again fully, another one is there, thrusting deep and throwing his head back as he comes—

And once that man has finished, having filled Goro with a new wave of cum inside his hole and still with his softening cock inside, that man says, “I’ve brought something special for you, Go-chan.”

Goro looks up at the man hazily, watching as he pulls something out of his jacket pocket—a black, permanent marker.

The man makes a mark against the inside of Goro’s thigh, a single stroke.

“Now we can count how many times we’ve all come inside you, Go-chan. See how good of a little cum-dumpster you are.” And he puts the marker between Goro’s legs.

The black stroke of the marker cuts across the inside of his thigh stark and sharp, like a knife, like blood spilling down his thigh.

The black of the ink, the smell of fresh marker on his skin, and the way he’s so full it hurts, with one man in his ass, one in his mouth, one fucking between his thighs—and he keeps looking at that line of black ink against his skin, black ink on skin, on skin.

He remembers the first time this happened, back in the real world.

Shido called him into one of his meeting rooms. It was early enough in all of this, and Goro was naive enough still, or perhaps just hopeful, that he thought it was just another research session. Instead he walked into a room full of men all Shido’s age, all turning to him as he walked in. Hungry.

Shido walked up to him, smiled and put his hand on Goro’s shoulder paternally, and whispered, in words as cold as ice, “You haven’t proved yourself useful enough to me, yet.” And walked out of the room.

It wasn’t the first time Goro had been fucked by an older man on Shido’s whim. But it was the first time it had been more than one. Nor did they take it easy on him—because these were not men who were used to waiting for what they wanted.

When Goro got home that night, he took off his shoes, then his socks, and then the rest of his clothes, and collapsed in front of the full-length mirror on the hall. Splayed on the dusty floor of his living room, hardly able to move, he took himself in. He saw some bruises on his hips, some on the pale skin of his arms, nothing too bad.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black marker that had rolled off of his desk at some point and under the radiator, forgotten. He didn’t know if it was permanent or not. He uncapped it, anyway.

He thought back to being at the grocery store with his mother and seeing a chart at the deli counter, a cartoon of a cow with dotted lines sectioning it all to pieces. Each was marked showing what it would become—this piece becomes sirloin, this one shank, this piece brisket. Kind of like a puzzle, he’d thought as a child, each part sectioned off with those thick dotted lines. Every piece with a purpose.

Goro laid on his floor after being fucked by a dozen of Shido’s associates, and he picked up the black marker, and slowly, he pressed it to the inside of his thigh. Then kept going, carefully dotting a line around his whole thigh. He liked the way the marks looked against his skin. Then he drew a dotted line around one of the bruises on his hip, sectioning it off neatly; then one around his other hip, his other thigh, around the nipples that some of the men had seemed to enjoy playing with. Dotted lines up his arms, his torso, right under his collar so they wouldn’t be seen under his clothes.

He’d dropped the marker and looked at himself in the mirror, sectioned off and ready to serve.

Now Goro is not fifteen and on his living room floor in front of a mirror. Now he is not five and in the supermarket with his mother.

Now he is on his father’s ship being used by the cognitions of all the men his father uses in turn, and when he looks down at himself through cloudy, half-focused eyes, he sees a tally mark on his inner thigh, and he thinks, giddily, about how it all feels the same.

So when the next man takes his place fucking into Goro’s ass, when that next man thrusts and thrusts until he reaches his own release, when he finally pulls out and reaches for that marker that’s between Goro’s legs and goes to make a second tally mark on Goro’s thigh—Goro slowly grabs the marker out of the man’s hand. Instead of continuing the tally, he draws a dotted line extending from the first mark and continuing all the way around his thigh. Then he bends his leg to his chest and draws another messy dotted line on the lower thigh, right above his kneecap. He passes the marker back to the man, pats the sectioned-off thigh, and says to the man, “All yours, now.”

The man’s eyes sparkle. He sticks a finger back into Goro’s hole to gather some of the cum that’s filling it and dripping out now, and smears that cum on Goro’s thigh, right in the middle of the section Goro had divided for him. Then he takes the marker and signs his name in that section, repeating, “Mine.”

The shadow fucking his face lets out a harsh groan as he watches the man finish signin his name, and grunts, “Close, ah, fuck, I need a piece, mine—” and then comes in a stripe across Goro’s chest. He grabs the marker, draws a dotted line around the cum-splattered skin, and then signs his name there.

A newfound ferocity is buzzing in the crowd now, as they all push a little harder, a little faster, to get their turn with Goro. To fuck him, to use him, and to mark parts as theirs.

The prime cuts are taken first: one man comes across one of Goro’s ass cheeks and sections that off as his, then the other ass cheek is claimed. A shadow comes in a stripe across Goro’s stomach and takes his time claiming his piece and signing his name. His hips are claimed, each nipple tweaked raw and stiff and slathered in come and marked with neat little black circles.

Then the less-desirable parts: his arms, his knees, his elbows.

One man is slowly pulling the glove off of Goro’s right hand, and another is sucking on each of the fingers of his left—did he take the glove off his left hand already? Where did he put it? He doesn’t want to lose those gloves, he’d better—

Glove. His left glove. Akira.

All the thoughts that he’s been holding back, forcing back, fucking back—they all come rushing in like a deluge, and Goro’s drowning. He’s struggling to breathe now. All he knows is he’s trying to pull back his left hand, trying to keep it clean, but the shadow is still sucking on his fingers, still licking them.

The shadow grunts, “Hey, what the fuck are you doing, these are mine?” but Goro keeps pulling, trying to get the fingers out of the shadow’s filthy mouth, because “these are his, I gave it to him, these are Akira’s, stop, give them back—”

He scratches the inside of the shadow’s mouth, trying to get his left hand back, and that’s when he realizes he’s gone too far, because the shadow goes very, very still, gripping Goro’s wrist so hard it hurts.

“You fucking slut,” the shadow says to him. “These are fucking mine now, you fucking slut.”

The enraged shadow throws its head back and transforms into a terrifying lion-shaped beast. It bares its huge, gleaming teeth, and before Goro can even scream, it bites off the fingers of Goro’s left hand.

Goro stares at the bloody stumps on his hand in shock as the Cerberus chews up Goro’s flesh and swallows them whole.

His mind is still working at half speed, his vision still hazy from alcohol and drugs and the shock of his fingerless hand, as Goro looks around the room. The Cerberus’ transformation and bloodshed seemed to have agitated the other shadows; they stare Goro down hungrily, angrily, and one by one, they transform into shadows, into beasts.

“This part was mine!” one says, pointing a clawed finger at a strip of skin along Goro’s stomach that’s been marked off and signed neatly. With hardly a second of hesitation, the finger rips into the soft skin and tears a strip of flesh off of Goro’s stomach, making him howl in pain as his skin erupts in blood.

More shadows are transforming, and with claws, with knives, with bared teeth, they tear into Goro’s skin, taking him apart piece by piece.

A shadow is still fucking into him, but it’s grown to double its previous size, tearing him apart from the inside out.

He’s in so much pain now he can hardly think, can hardly breathe. Each limb gets bitten off and swallowed whole, and strips of flesh are pulled off his body and savoured as he disappears along neatly drawn lines, and he can hardly keep his eyes open he’s losing so much blood—

But he somehow, miraculously, finds his phone, and muscle memory more than anything gets him to hit that glowing red eye on his phone.

He falls onto the dark lawn in front of the Diet building. There’s no one around. He’s alive, he’s whole—but his skin still burns with all the pain and feeling of being torn apart.

He’s back and he’s whole once more, but his shirt is still hanging open across his chest, his pants and underwear down around his ankles.

By the faint light of the moon, Goro sees the black dotted marks across his skin, dividing him into parts like a puzzle, each piece finally given purpose.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
